And definitely NOT how to board a boat in Lamlash Harbour…

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday weekend. Over here on our little Scottish island, the annual celebration of telling the British where to stick it has never really taken off. Funny that. So our Fourth of July festivities were delightfully understated: an attempted BBQ in the garden (this is still Scotland, so of course it poured rain), a couple of burgers, and absolutely no fireworks.

At least, not until we tried to take the boat out for the first time this year.

Now, every boating story begins with someone saying, “It’ll be fine.” In our house, that someone is known as the Hub.

We have a new dinghy this year, which is lovely. What we don’t yet have is the boarding ladder we’d ordered for getting back onto the boat. Minor detail, apparently.

“You’ll manage,” said the Hub confidently. “You’ve always managed.”

Readers, I did not manage.

Somewhere between the dinghy and the boat, I performed what can only be described as a slow-motion interpretive dance before disappearing elegantly into Lamlash Harbour.

If you’ve never fallen into the sea unexpectedly, let me tell you two things.

Firstly, the water surrounding Scotland is not “refreshing.” It is liquid, icy treachery.

Secondly, if you are a pleasantly upholstered woman in her seventies, there comes a point where your foot simply refuses to travel higher than your own head. No amount of determination, dignity, or colourful language will persuade your hips otherwise.

As I floundered, my state-of-the-art lifejacket decided this was its moment to shine. With all the subtlety of an exploding airbag, it inflated instantly.

One second I was me.

The next, I was approximately the size and shape of a juvenile whale.

Or, as the Hub later described it, “a bright yellow Sta-Puft Marshmallow Woman.”

Unable to climb aboard and now possessing the hydrodynamic qualities of a garden shed, I clung desperately to the dinghy while the Hub towed me back to the harbour at roughly the speed of continental drift.

“Just hang on,” he called encouragingly at regular intervals. “Almost there.”

Then, after listening to several minutes of my heartfelt opinions on the situation, he added, “And stop shouting suggestions involving the son of god. We’re Jewish.”

This seemed a curious moment for theological accuracy.

I reminded him that during all four of our children’s births I’d called him things considerably less complimentary than the offspring of Christian deities, and I was significantly angrier with him now than I’d been then. Oddly enough, that failed to improve the atmosphere.

The next thirty minutes passed in frosty silence—quite literally on my part—as I bobbed behind the dinghy like an oversized fluorescent buoy with abandonment issues.

Back at the pier, kind souls helped retrieve what was left of my dignity. The official diagnosis was mild hypothermia.

The unofficial diagnosis was terminal embarrassment.

The good news is that I’m absolutely fine.

The better news is that the boarding ladder has now become a matter of some urgency.

And the best news?

Everyone else at Lamlash Harbour got a free comedy show.

It’s always nice to give something back to the local community, even if they don’t get the importance of putting on massive fireworks celebrating the loss of the American colonies.